


Want

by todisturbtheuniverse



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Crushes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 23:28:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1282645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompted by flutiebear on Tumblr: You know I'd do anything for some Merrill/Carver, so perhaps you could take a stab at it? That's the prompt, btw. "Take a stab at it." :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Want

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flutiebear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flutiebear/gifts).



The alley around the corner from The Hanged Man is dark and quiet, everything that the tavern isn’t, and the cool, grimy wall soothes his aching head. Carver can still hear the noise, a bit, in the distance. He fancies he hears his brother’s booming, crackling voice amidst the uneven shouts and cheers. Their last job had been more fruitful than the last ten combined; Garrett had jumped on the chance to celebrate.

Garrett is intolerable  _always_ , but he’s far worse when drunk. That smug smile becomes a full-blown, lazy smirk; he laughs too loud and spreads his arms too wide; and he makes impulsive purchases that seem designed to nettle his brother.

But, no; Garrett hadn’t been drunk for  _that_. He’d just been his usual, oblivious self.

"Carver?"

He hops down from the crate he’d been sitting on, a hand jerking automatically to the hilt of his sword, but in the next moment he recognizes Merrill’s silhouette in the mouth of the alley and lets his hand fall.

"Oh," he says, too blunt, not nice at all, "it’s just you."

"Mmm," she agrees, ignoring his blunder, and steps a little closer, and offering up the thing she’s holding: his battered old sword, the one he left on the table inside, the one that came with him from Fereldan, from Ostagar. "You left it," she says, not looking at him, but gazing around the alley instead.

He gestures over his shoulder, still too tired to be polite. “I have a new one. Garrett bought it today.”

She frowns, inspecting the weapon in her hands now. “Was this one bad?”

"No," he tries to explain, dragging a dusty, calloused palm over his face. "He didn’t ask me," he says. "He bought me a new one, and he didn’t ask."

"Oh," she says, her eyes widening, as if she’s surprised by this. "That’s very rude, isn’t it?"

For a moment, he stares at her, wondering if she’s just yanking him around—seems like he never can tell, her humor so dry it reads like academia and the words sift through his hands like slick ink—but for now, it seems, she’s perfectly serious.

"It’s a good sword," she continues, and brings it close to her tipped head, like she’s listening. "Tired, but good."

She hesitates, weighing it. He braces himself, wondering what she’ll say, what she could have possibly gleaned from cold dead metal, and then—

"Can I try it out?"

He blinks.

"Try it out?"

She nods with her sharp chin, setting her feet apart like she would if an enemy got too close. With a quick, easy motion, she frees her staff from her back and props it against the stack of crates.

"I suppose," he says, a little dumbfounded.

The weapon dwarfs her—but then, her staff does, too. For a long moment, she stands there, motionless, making minute adjustments with her hands on the hilt.

"I don’t see how you fight with this," she announces finally, her nose wrinkled. "My hands feel too close together."

"Just swing it," he encourages, trying to keep his sudden grin to himself. He unsheathes his own sword, offering her a protected target. "It’s meant to be in motion."

"Is that meant to be a dirty thing?" she asks, almost absentmindedly. "It sounds like something Isabela would say, you know, with her mouth all twisted up."

While  _his_  mouth is agape, her muscles shift. Her grip tightens. She’s not exactly a frail little thing—her staff has left bruises when she’s accidentally clipped him in battle. (“Sorry!” she always cries afterward, with her eyes like saucers and fingers splayed over her mouth, even when that smack to the knee only really bruised his pride. He ought to stop staring at her and get out of the bloody way.) She swings, a passable Scythe he has to jump back to avoid. Hastily, he brings up his shining new sword and lets her get her footing again.

"Good," he says, grinning, the tense moment of half-arousal forgotten. "Try a Whirlwind."

She frowns at him.

"Swing," he amends. "In a full circle this time. And don’t step forward."

She frowns again—this one different, he notices, with a little wrinkle between her eyebrows—and turns, throwing herself into the action. Before the blade swings too far, he catches it on his, bringing her to a jarring halt only inches from him. Her feet dig in, trying to press through his strength, but he’s immobile, a statue, easily resisting.

"Sorry," he says, looking down at her just as she looks up at him. "You looked like you might overbalance."

Her ankles loosen; her shoulders relax. There’s a curious look in her green eyes, a little spark. He swallows, mouth suddenly dry.

A shout from The Hanged Man rouses him. There’s no mistaking the voice this time; it’s Garrett, and he’s walking this way. Carver steps back as if burned, letting the swords clatter loudly as they fall apart.

"You should keep it," she says, as if she hasn’t noticed anything amiss.

"Let Garrett sell it," he replies, brushing past her toward the mouth of the alley. "If that’s what he wants."

A small hand tucks into the crook of his arm, stopping him. “What about what you want?” she asks, perfectly serious.

He lingers for a moment, wondering how to answer that, letting the warmth of her palm and fingers seep into his skin. Even with his heart swollen up in his throat, he feels peaceful, standing so close to her and her worried eyes. What he wants doesn’t matter—hasn’t ever mattered, feels like. He wants Bethany back. He wants the house that burned in Lothering back. He wants Father back, and Mother to be happy, and Gamlen to be dead, maybe, but if wishes were poppy—

Gently, he shrugs her hand off. “Good night, Merrill,” he says, and leaves her there in the alley, holding the relic that belonged to a man he left behind in Fereldan.


End file.
